


The Mercy of Heaven

by herebewyverns



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Don't Judge Me, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, No Footnotes Either, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Body Swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2020-07-28 14:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20065267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herebewyverns/pseuds/herebewyverns
Summary: It had never occurred to Crowley that Heaven might actually be *worse* than Hell. He'd always assumed that Aziraphale was exaggerating.Turned out that he owed his angel an apology.*12/12/2019: Edited and a little expanded*





	The Mercy of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> So, I couldn't sleep, and I had too many ideas floating around for the actual series I'm *meant* to be writing and ... Well, then this happened instead. I know, I don't know what's wrong with me either...
> 
> Because I just can't get past the fact the Crowley got a trial and witnesses and everything is weirdly above-board by Hell's standards (let's be honest, he was never going to be found innocent, but they still bothered to make an Effort about the whole thing) and yet Heaven refuses to bother giving Aziraphale even so much as a sham-trial and they just throw him straight into the hell fire as soon as they have some. Even Crowley-as-Aziraphale seemed kinda thrown by the whole thing.
> 
> And I wondered, if Aziraphale had always thought that this would happen should he be found out and all, whether this didn't shed a bit of light onto why he always refuses to admit that he and his ineffable husband are friends? So here we go...

_MORTALS CAN HOPE FOR DEATH, OR FOR REDEMPTION. YOU CAN HOPE FOR NOTHING. _

_ALL YOU CAN HOPE FOR IS THE MERCY OF HELL._

_"Yeah?" _

_JUST OUR LITTLE JOKE._

_"Ngk," said Crowley._

*

Crowley sat and stared into space.

Well, that wasn’t strictly speaking true; he was staring at Aziraphale from across their customary table at the Ritz, really. If Crowley to be entirely honest with himself. Dreadful thought, that.

The angel was merrily chattering on about the – apparently many – unexpected merits of his new Antichrist-bestowed books that were gracing his bookshop, and in no way appeared to appreciate the fact that he had forced Crowley to question his entire world-view. It was not a comfortable experience, but he had distracted Aziraphale with cake and a topic upon which the angel would not expect him to have much to say in order to give himself a bit of space to stare into a particularly harsh void.

They’d just finished telling each other about their antics while they’d swapped bodies; what they’d done, what they’d said, what had been said _to them_. Aziraphale had insisted, called it vital for ‘maintaining continuity’, as if either of them was ever going to speak to their respective old sides again after today.

If it had been left to _Crowley_, Aziraphale would never have had the opportunity to ever find out about Heaven and hellfire and those terrible ‘last moments’ of facing down three archangels intent on committing an act of 'righteous' murder. That hadn’t been punishment, it hadn’t been a trial, it had been revenge for not getting their own way in something for once. A massive angelic temper tantrum, you might say. If you were feeling especially uncharitable.

Which Crowley _was_.

And Crowley _certainly _would never have told Aziraphale had he not insisted on asking.

He’d evaded those questions for as long as he possibly could, asking question after question about Hell. _Not_ that he’d wanted Aziraphale to have to relive such an experience - which must have been harrowing indeed for the gentle angel - but to his surprise Aziraphale's eyes had positively glowed with mischief with every new titbit he remembered, and he was so very proud of himself and so very pleased with his acting that Crowley couldn’t feel too badly about all the questions.

Finally, Aziraphale had pressed that bit further, and he’d mumbled his way through telling as little as he could get away with, avoiding the angel’s eyes all the while. He’d not wanted to see Aziraphale’s last few, treasured scraps of faith in his colleagues and his old side finally flicker and die as he found out exactly what he’d been worth to them.

_"It’s Hellfire. It will destroy you absolutely and utterly and forever. Now shut your stupid mouth and die_."

Crowley would have taken that whole nightmare with him to the grave - or the final discorporation, if you will - if he had had a choice.

But Aziraphale had taken his hand, and Crowley had at last looked up to see…

To see his angel looking concerned, not for _himself_ but for _Crowley_ of all people!

“My darling, are you sure you’re alright? They didn’t ...” He paused as if trying to find the most careful words possible, as if _Crowley_ were the fragile one who needed to be taken care of right now. “They didn’t _hurt_ you at all, did they?”

Crowley barked a laugh, bitter and bitten off as quickly as he could catch it.

“What, you mean apart from the bit where they just demanded that I to walk myself into hellfire on their say-so?”

Aziraphale looked confused now.

“Yes, but hellfire won’t hurt you, that was the whole point of the plan.” A thought obviously struck him, because his face turned suddenly horrified. “Oh, but my dear! _Did_ it hurt you? Because you were in my body? I’m so sorry, dar-“

“No! No, I was fine, it was fine.” Crowley snatched up his champagne flute and down the contents in one go, trying to force the conversation to make more sense through the sheer power of alcohol. “It all worked out fine, just as we planned it.”

Aziraphale settled back down, content now that he’d checked Crowley wasn’t nobly hiding some kind of horrific injury the whole time they’d been working their way through their favourites from the Ritz’s lunchtime menu.

Then he threw Crowley a look which said that he was not quite out of the woods yet.

“Don’t think I don’t know you after all these years, you old serpent.” The angel sounded so very _fond_. So very _soft_. “I can see perfectly well that something is bothering you, honestly, Crowley. Now, out with it this minute, or I’ll never be able to do proper justice to dessert.”

Crowley snorted his refilled-champagne down his nose as he was caught off-guard by a chuckle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aziraphale’s smug little grin at getting one over on the demon. _Just enough of a bastard, indeed._

The waiters appeared seemingly from thin air and fussed over Crowley for a while, helpfully providing a distraction with their napkins, and their concern and their refills (again). Finally, they scuttled off and the ethereal/occult pair were left in peace to continue talking.

“You did that on purpose,” Crowley accused, voice still rasping in his throat.

Aziraphale raised a lofty eyebrow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, my dear. Now, for goodness - or badness, if you really must insist - sake's, tell me what’s bothering you.”

Stubborn bastard too. You’d think Crowley would have learned by now. He sighed and finally decided to just rip the plaster off in one go. No sense in drawing it out any more than he had to, if it was truly so inevitable.

“You didn’t get a trial, angel. It wasn’t… it wasn’t _punishment_, I mean, for your 'crimes' – whatever they felt those might have been. Someone knows they never actually bothered to specify anything, give details, have witness testimony, the like. Gabriel just said 'one act of treason', which wasn't as helpful as he probably thought it was. It wasn't a _trial_. It was just revenge for not getting their own way in things … it was _murder._”

Aziraphale’s shoulders relaxed suddenly, which was the exact opposite of what Crowley had been expecting and then he even had the nerve to actually _smile_ at Crowley, as if he had been expecting to hear something so much _worse_.

“Oh goodness, is that all that was bothering you so, darling?” Crowley was very aware that he was staring stupidly at his angel, but he couldn’t make himself stop, especially as Aziraphale continued. “Well _of course_ there wasn’t going to be a trial; that would mean they might have had to let me off, if they’d done it all officially. I know you think you remember, but I promise you that you have _no idea_ how long-winded they've got Upstairs these past few... centuries? No, possibly longer..." Aziraphale paused, seemingly thinking back on endless meetings and memos that went on for days at a time. Then he shook himself abruptly back to the topic at hand, shaking his head decisively. "No, no, a nice quick death away from prying eyes and before anyone - or ah, Any_one_ if you take my meaning – could intervene? Much more sensible all round, if not particularly merciful, I'll grant you. No chance for, ah, _me_ to possibly sway other angels into coming around to my way of thinking, get a following of rebels, or something equally as inconvenient." He stopped again, this time blushing and bashfully looking down at the silverware he twiddled absently between his fingers. "Not that I feel like I'd have made a very good leader of a second rebellion of course! Perish the very thought and all that."

Crowley smiled a little himself at the image, Aziraphale leading a whole army of disaffected angels, presumably in the demand of better biscuits at team meetings or comfier chairs? The furniture in Heaven - such as it existed at all - was certainly not chosen for comfort to anyone, and reminded Crowley eerily of his own flat's furniture which had been specifically designed and chosen to be comfortable to no one at all, but to look very ... sleek, while doing that. It would have been the quietest, most tartan-bedecked, stuffiest rebellion in all of History and Crowley would have been front and centre to join the ranks.

Aziraphale was still talking, impossibly calm in the face of his planned demise. "Really, the set-up you described was just as I always imagined it would be. Much more efficient, you see? No trial, no paperwork, no witness, a dash of hellfire, and they would have achieved exactly what they wanted; no questions asked. Oh no, dear boy, I was very much expecting _that_, have done for years what with Gabriel's notes and the reprimands and all. Indeed, if I thought they were at all likely to hold you in, _ah_, custody for long enough to hold a proper trial I’d never have suggested it; far too much chance of you getting found out, and I shudder to _think_ what would have come of that! No, no, everything worked out just wonderfully as it did, I should say.”

And the angel seemed to think that that was that. Nothing exciting here, moving along, have you heard about my new books, dear boy?

_Crowley_ was the one who couldn’t seem to comprehend it. Whose mind rebelled from the idea every time he thought of it.

_"We’re meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake.”_

He’d said that, to those wingéd wankers, and Gabriel had all but laughed in his face at the very idea, the very _notion,_ that murdering one of their own would impede that identity. Crowley had been muttering dire insinuations against Aziraphale’s co-workers for centuries, millennia even, but he’d been entirely unprepared for the _reality_ of it all. And for _Aziraphale_ to have expected it too…

How long had Aziraphale known, or suspected at least, that his leash was so short, not to mention that it was _barbed with hellfire?_ How long had he looked into the eyes of Michael or Gabriel, Sandalphon or Uriel, and seen his own death looking back if they ever decided he’d crossed some imaginary line too far. How long had he known exactly how much his own life had been worth in the eyes of his commanding officers?

Aziraphale hadn’t even Fallen, and they’d tried to simply do away with him, _permanently_, for… _Someone’s_ sake's!

Crowley could have understood such an attitude if Aziraphale had been cast from Her Love. He wouldn't have _liked_ it, in fact he’d have hated it and all that it stood for, but Aziraphale was still just as much of an angel as he ever had been, fluffy and ethereal and terribly prim while still managing to be the most devious little shit Crowley had ever been privileged to meet. Had he Fallen, Crowley could have understood the archangels’ plan to destroy him completely rather than send him down to Hell. After all, there would have been no point in (presumably) rewarding him by sending him off to the welcome of a demon’s friendship, cold as it might have been in the absence of Heaven’s light. But it would have made some awful, dreadful kind of sense.

But not _this._

_"My lot don’t send rude notes_."

Crowley had just been so confident that this was the worst that Aziraphale faced for his troubles. Angry notes, stern lectures, maybe a dull desk job at the worst.

And now…

Aziraphale had segued merrily off onto another topic, Crowley discovered on checking back into his genial ramblings. Something about Adam and his friends and going to visit them all in another month or so.

_(“Just to see how they’re getting on and make sure they aren’t suffering from any ill-effects, my dear. Preventing Apocalypses is hard enough for us, and we’re immortal beings. I can’t imagine what the effects might be for eleven year olds!”)_

Crowley made all the right noises – mostly ones of annoyance; he knows his role in these little chats by now far too well to give in straight away – and instead turns his thoughts back on the long, tangled history of their friendship. It’s a history he knows by heart, of course he does, but this new insight into Aziraphale and his place, if you could call it that, in Heaven … Well, it changed a few things.

Aziraphale had always been so terribly, dreadfully, _nervous_. His utter refusal to acknowledge Crowley as even so much as his friend for so long, which Crowley had tried so very hard not to take personally and sort of had regardless.

_"And what does your friend think?”  
“Oh, he’s not my friend. We don’t know each other.”_

Crowley at the time hadn’t so much as dignified the idea with a response, just egged the actor on stage to get on with things – anything to get the wretched performance over with, he’d told himself. The problem wasn’t that Aziraphale had lied to a human stranger they would likely never meet again; what did Crowley care for their opinions, after all? It had been how very _instinctively_ the protest had seemed to come from the angel. Like Aziraphale hadn't even had to think about it, hadn't needed even a second to come up with a lie, like the angel had not - perhaps - needed to lie at all. Because he had spoken only the truth.

But now… Now Crowley wasn't so sure...

Aziraphale is a lot better at lying than an angel ought to be, Crowley had always known that, though he doubts it would have saved him in the end. Crowley wonders, idly, if Aziraphale learned the skill because of him? But no, then he remembers Eden all over again, and Aziraphale lying to the Almighty Herself about a ‘misplaced’ flaming sword and something he hadn't even noticed had tensed up within himself relaxes a little bit.

Aziraphale didn’t become cunning because of his friendship with Crowley; he became friends with Crowley because he was a crazy little maverick who wanted to share that with the only being who’d likely get the joke.

“-and then I thought possibly we ought to paint the White House up as one gigantic rainbow, don’t you think, dear?”

"Sure thing, angel..." 

Crowley suddenly swings back to the conversation with a lurch, chocking on his wine. “Wait, _what?_”

Aziraphale’s grin is all mischief and sparkling mirth. “Oh, coming to join me back in reality, are we, darling?”

Crowley does not blush to be so caught out. He does not.

“I, um, I was just thinking.”

Aziraphale hums, still far too amused. “Yes, for quite some time it looked like. Don’t worry, I’ll fill you in on everything you agreed to just now" He pauses, letting the threat sink in for a second, "oh... at a later point.”

Crowley’s scowl and _Don’t even try it, angel_ look serves only to make Aziraphale giggle, high and sweet and totally un-threatened. Crowley is losing his touch.

“Now then, what on earth was so engrossing, my dear?”

Crowley thinks about lying, just for a second, but he knows that Aziraphale will only ferret it out of him sooner or later. He sighs and fiddles with his dessert fork a bit, playing for time. Perhaps if he leaves it hanging for long enough, Aziraphale will drop the matter and let it rest? Sadly angels, like demons, are immortal and thus have the patience that saints were once credited with.

“I was thinking about the risk you took, being friends with me. You must have been –“ _terrified_ “- worried, at times.”

Another snatch of memory, sharp and serrated as it always is when Crowley lets himself remember it, but seen at last in a very different light.

“_Do you know what trouble I’d get into if they knew I’d been fraternising? It’s completely out of the question.”  
“Fraternising.”  
“Whatever you wish to call it. I do not think that there is any point in discussing it further.”_

'What kind of trouble' indeed.

Aziraphale shrugs, and that is a quirk Crowley _did_ teach him, centuries ago. The angel’s more than enjoyed making use of it since though.

“No more than you were, my darling. And _you_ of course, were so much more clever and proactive than I was, actually making a proper plan for defence instead of me sitting there with nothing but blind hope and a flimsy collection of lies even I didn’t believe.”

Crowley feels suspicion slide down his spine; he doesn't mutter his inner thoughts out-loud. No demon does, if they want to survive for more than a decade or two. Exactly how many of his thoughts have really been flitting across his face, decipherable only to one who knows him so well as Aziraphale does? And - Crowley thinks with mild amusement and grudging respect - how many thoughts has Aziraphale simply plucked out of his mind like books from those shelves of his; the way they usually agree not to for politeness' sake?

_Crafty old bugger..._

Aziraphale looks a little guilty, but only a very little, and mostly he looks fond and soft in the candle light around the dining room; the evening is drawing in, Crowley realises, they must have been here for hours.

“Well, I – I truly didn’t _mean_ to pick out your thoughts, my dear, I know how you hate that, but you were just thinking so very _loudly _and I can’t help hearing things when you do that…”

He stops and cocks his head, considering Crowley very carefully. Crowley can feel himself tense, just a little, for whatever is coming.

What comes is Aziraphale's hand, reaching out to gently pick up Crowley's own, resting on the table, and cradle it like something precious.

“Darling, I really am so dreadfully sorry to have been such a coward about you for so long. I ought to have acknowledged us so much earlier, as soon as I realised that we _were _an us if possible; it was dreadfully ill-suited for an angel to be so craven and to treat you in such a cavalier fashion, _well_, it doesn't bear thinking about! … I truly am sorry, my dear boy.”

Crowley flailed internally, though he tried to hide this fact and look all nonchalant externally, of course. He probably didn’t succeed very well at either goal.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Aziraphale shakes his head firmly, relentless as ever. “It _does _matter. I hurt you dreadfully, several times, but especially recently and I am very sorry to have done so.”

The bandstand hangs between them, words neither of them had meant, not even a little bit, not even at the time. Fear had made fools of them both, but then angel and demon both have always been a little bit foolish, especially where the other is concerned.

And Crowley can’t say that he hadn’t been a little hurt at the time, but now, looking back with this new insight…

“Look, I won’t say that it didn’t hurt, but considering what I _thought_ you were risking and what you actually _were_ risking by joining up with me like that… I can’t say that I might not have made a few different choices down the line either.”

Crowley is careless with his own life, he knows. Always had been. For all that he might mutter about being cast out of Heaven for asking questions, he’d been told often enough to stop and had made the specific choice to keep pushing regardless. He’d done it once he was a demon too, always pushing, pushing, pushing, at people’s boundaries, at the rules, at what was really Right or Wrong and what was just a bit of a nuisance. He’d pushed Aziraphale too, since the very first moment they’d met, ignoring the angel’s discomfort with the conversation to speculate on the Fall of Man and what was really the point of forbidding things that are right within reach. He’d only stopped when actually _talking_ to the strange, nervous angel became suddenly and blindingly more alluring.

But the thing is… Crowley’s never been careless with _Aziraphale’s_ life. No matter what Aziraphale himself might say, especially with a view to Crowley’s driving. Which is _actually_ perfect and _entirely_ safe, no matter what Aziraphale mutters when he thinks Crowley isn't listening. The Bentley knows better than to make any really wild manoeuvres when the angel is in the passenger seat, after all.

At least, he’d always thought he’d never been careless with Aziraphale.

He’s not an idiot, of course he’s not. He’d done the – what were those joy-killing things called that he’d always regretted inventing? Oh yes – the _risk-assessment_ on their friendship, on what would be the worst that could happen if they were discovered. Reprimands, demotions, loss of privileges in Aziraphale's case, possibly; torture in _his_ case, probably. The very worst Crowley had ever imagined in the darkest hours of a sleepless night that Aziraphale might rightly fear had they been discovered had been losing the Bookshop; a dreadful thought, yes, but lowering to have been found less worthy in comparison to all the same.

But if he’d known that Aziraphale faced annihilation alongside him… Would he have pushed so hard?

_“Friends? We aren’t friends. We are an angel and a demon. We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don’t even like you!”  
“You do!”  
“We are on opposite sides.”  
“We’re on our side.”  
“There isn’t an ‘our side’, Crowley. Not any more. It’s over.”_

“Well if that’s the case then I am very thankful indeed that I never confided my fears to you, my dear.” Aziraphale says crisply, clinking his teacup back onto its saucer, having apparently finished with the wine for a moment.

“What, really?” Crowley looks at him over the tops of his glasses in case the tinted glass has somehow deceived his ears.

Aziraphale's eyes are wide and clear and gentle and so, so _blue_. “Of course, no point in us _both_ being scared for both of us - although I do, and have always, wish you’d place more value on your own life, my darling. Do you think you might take that up as a new resolution, now that we have new lives to lead? - Still, one of us had to be brave, and prepared to risk everything if necessary, and I’m afraid that role was ever ear-marked as yours, my love.”

Crowley nearly chokes on his wine for a second time, but manages to save himself at the last minute.

He knows his face is shocked as he looks at Aziraphale, but the angel only smiles at him, fond and just a touch brave. He still hasn't let go of Crowley's hand, the demon realises, abstractly.

“You saved the world just so that I would talk to you, my love. The least I could do in return is start admitting truthful things out loud, just like I always should have done, don't you think?”

“I- _angel_” Crowley is speechless, breathless in the face of such an unlooked-for possibility coming unexpectedly into his reach. He’d _hoped_, of course he had, but to have Aziraphale even _suggest_…

“Now, darling," Aziraphale dabs at his mouth with his napkin, and straightens his spine, looking very serious and sensible. "It’s been a truly lovely meal, and I’ve ordered things off this menu I haven’t sampled in _years_ while you’ve worked yourself through our entire history trying to refashion us into a Gothic novel of forbidden feelings, instead of admit that you fell for a rather foolish angel." And yet again that wicked little twinkle dances in the depths of those blue eyes and Crowley feels his knees go a little weak to see it. "But if we don’t pay the bill and leave soon, I shall be forced to do some rather unmentionable things to you over that piano.”

Crowley can’t help it, he just can’t. He’s picturing it, _speculating_, if you will.

Aziraphale's expression says that he knows _exactly_ what Crowley's thinking, yet again, but this time he's much more amused by what he's hearing. “And as delightful as we both clearly find the idea, I had rather hoped that our first time might be in more comfortable surroundings, if you please.”

They rise together as one, and link arms.

“Are you sure, angel?” And no matter how driven he is to getting a rise from his angel, Crowley isn’t actually asking about the thing with the piano. He just ... He doesn’t want to push, not now. Not when everything's finally in reach and he can finally...

Aziraphale’s smile is, if not exactly _angelic_, certainly beatific, even as his eyes still sparkle with a little of the mischief that caused a demon to fall in love.

“Darling, they’ve already tried to end us twice, and they failed both times. The only risk we’re facing any more is to my furniture, and _that_ I can assure you, I am _quite_ willing to sacrifice if necessary.”

Crowley throws his head back and laughs, and laughs, and pushes his angel out of the door and towards a whole new range of possibilities.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, check out my blog for random thoughts on writing, fantasy, dragons and folklore. Also there's a tiny dragon as a guest-star, so that can't be bad!  
I can be found at: <https://herebeblog.wordpress.com/>


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